


Two months, eleven hours.

by FrankCastlesTankTop (SecretlyWritingFanfic)



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Day drinking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, New York summers, Waiting can be worse, window shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:41:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretlyWritingFanfic/pseuds/FrankCastlesTankTop
Summary: Frank blew through Karen's life like bad weather. Yet, somehow, things seemed brighter when he was in it. Maybe that's why she couldn’t stand in the shadow of his absence.





	Two months, eleven hours.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kastle fic/art exchange 2018 (maaaaaybe a day or two behind) and inspired by sarma's [darling sketch](http://sarma.tumblr.com/post/169682064849).

The moment Frank’s boots vanished through the elevator hatch, Karen began to worry. Was he safe? Would he heal? Knowing Frank, it was too much to ask for both. In the hallways of the Bulletin, rumors circulated of a bloodbath at the Central Park carousel; Madani was on medical leave again, and Homeland wasn’t talking.

So, Karen filed her story, threw away the blouse with the blood stains (but saved the purse with the bullet hole), and went on with her life as if a piece wasn’t missing.

As if they didn’t have unfinished business.

In the mornings, Karen went into the office too early and worked too late. She ate bagel sandwiches half-wrapped in foil and ignored emails that asked if she was alright. At night, at home, she drank whiskey and ignored the police blotter. She thought, once, of giving away the roses. She repotted them instead.

Six weeks later, she could almost believe the spring’s madness hadn’t happened – or at least that life had settled into its old patterns. Except, the Punisher was a stubborn ghost. He was a figure in doorways, a gruff laugh caught on a subway updraft. He was the stillness in her apartment and the shift of sheets as she turned in the night. It was hard to sleep with the shape of him in her memories.

The end of the second month was stifling – both from the early summer heat and the silence. Frank blew through Karen's life like bad weather. Yet, somehow, things seemed brighter when he was in it. Maybe that's why she couldn’t stand in the shadow of his absence. Something needed to happen, or she would go crazy waiting for change. So, Karen returned the emails, left early when Ellison blustered and promised to meet Foggy for a drink.

Which is how she found herself standing on an empty Midtown cross-street at the height of a New York afternoon.

It would be hours before she could sit in Josie’s and claim to be early, and home was more subway stops away than made sense. So, for the first time since she moved to the city, Karen wandered. She bought an iced coffee, pulled her hair back, and slowed her pace. As the sun gyred overhead, the stink of traffic gave way the smell of cold water rushing from hydrants. Fresh bread; cool air; the everything-at-once scent that defined the homes of other people.

She came to a halt at the oversized window of an all-sorts shop with hand-painted lettering on the glass: Nan’s Everything for Less.

Under the sign, oversized novelty sunglasses posed with plastic flamingos and fading towels. Micro beach chairs made to fit on jitneys jostled for space with barbecue sets, cheap coolers, and an apron with “Kiss the Cook” in thin blue letters. She thought of his lips on her cheek – close to her ear – and the small sound Frank made when he touched her skin.

In the fading heat of the day, she remembered the warmth of Frank’s arms.

“Kare - what’s all this?”

She was ten minutes late to Josie’s, but Foggy was all smiles – though his eyebrow quirked when he saw the bags over her arms.

“It’s hope, Fog.”

Her friend had cut his hair and bought nicer suits, but just under that new, cool exterior, beat the heart of a born comedian.

“Those hipsters can sell anything.”

There was a pint of beer waiting at her spot at the bar – it only mattered that it was cold. Karen took two deep swallows as Foggy dug through the bags, extracting plastic margarita glasses, a set of tongs, and those massive sunglasses. Pushing the shades back on his head like a crown, Foggy raised his glass to hers.

“This feels like a party. What are we celebrating?”

Karen clinked her pint glass against his with a determined grin, “Let’s call it a change in the weather.”

She made it home with most of the party set still intact. Foggy laid claim to the sunglasses and paid her handsomely in bar snacks and beer. She’d awarded the spatula and tongs from her barbecue set to a giggly pair of cub journalists she recognized from the bullpen at work. The beachball had been lost in a round of pool that the winner – a cute construction worker from the Bronx – insisted was worth another round and maybe her phone number (“How sweet! No!”).

She wouldn't part with the apron.

Inside the apartment, Karen piled the bags on her counter, kicked off her flats, and sank with a wobble onto the couch. This felt right. She closed her eyes, leaned back and breathed deeply. There was the sound of sirens, cars, people on the street below. The slow tick of an old clock by the door. The whir of her fridge. And a soft, familiar tapping on her living room window – the one that led to the fire escape.

Slow as a waxing moon, she turned to the window.

“It’s open.”


End file.
